Caring is not an advantage
by Johanna Holmes
Summary: It is the funeral of Sherlock Holmes. And John is not the only one with the feeling of sadness but as Mycroft Holmes comes the mood changes entirely...


"**Caring is not an advantage"**

"Oh John, life is like a roller-coaster. Someday we will get used it."

Really up lighting if a crying and sobbing Mrs. Hudson said that. Fitting to the mood of the whole situation dark clouds started to cover the sky above London, it would rain in a few minutes. John looked into the sky and blinked to choke back the tears. Next to him stood Molly her face in her hands and quietly sobbing. Greg had not talked through the whole ceremony and even now was still silent. Not one of them wanted to believe that Sherlock Holmes was dead. So suddenly, for ever, never next to them anymore. Of course he had driven them into madness especially John but all that was forgotten now. Now as they were standing at his grave.

"Sherlock Holmes" it said in golden letters on the black stone. "Born on the 6th of January 1976 – Died on the 4th of May 2012"

The 4th of May, John would remember this date forevermore, because this had been the day at which his life had been broken into pieces.

Why the hell had he jumped?! Why the hell had he wanted to convince him that he was a fake?!

Why?!

John had never really found a satisfying answer to himself, because he had never believed those words even they had come from Sherlock. John was angry, he was so angry about Sherlock and so depressed at the same time like he had never even been in Afghanistan. Had Sherlock just thought about him even once? Or about Lestrade, or Mrs. Hudson, or Molly? About anyone to whom he had mean something? John did not know if he should throw a wobbly or collapse with sorrow… He sighed depressed.

Finally Molly looked up. Her eyes were red and glassy but when she spoke her voice sounded strongly:

"John, I am sure that his last thoughts were about you."

The pathologist smiled at him tiredly. Involuntarily John had to think about his last conversation with Sherlock- his 'note'. During that he also thought about something else. Did the master detective still have parents that were alive and if yes: did they know about his death? John did not know much about Sherlock's family, just about his older brother Mycroft. Where was he anyway?

It started to rain. Mrs. Hudson had a gigantic handkerchief in her hands and was just able to speak with a broken voice.

"I'll stay."

No, John would not simply leave this place. Now big drops of rain fell down on London. Lestrade put on his hood and looked at the others.

"Fits at least to the mood."

After one and a half hour he had finally spoken again.

John looked again up into the dark sky. Were it just drops of rain or also tears that now ran over his face? He heard somebody sneezing next to him.

"Molly, perhaps you really should go home before you get yourself a cold…"

"I don't care whether this comes from a Doctor or not, no!"

John knew it was useless. Molly had loved Sherlock although he had not felt the same way.

Again he led his gaze wander over the others but without getting his head right up. Now that Sherlock was gone he seemed to notice stronger that the skills of the Consulting Detective had in these eighteen months also gone into his mind as well. John probably had never noticed that because he had always been stunned and distracted by Sherlock's greater talent.

Greg Lestrade, he had divorced a few days ago from his wife, the ring was missing at the right hand. They had not get on very well already a long time because she was unfaithful but it still seemed to stress him psychologically and together with this thing now could become too much for his health. John would keep an eye on him.

Molly Hooper, her whole face was covered in tears although she had promised herself not to cry because she did not want to seem weak to Sherlock even when he was dead. She would just concentrate on her work in the morgue the next days, trying get distraction from her thoughts about this man whom she had liked so much. Maybe John would join in in that.

Mrs. Hudson, she tried to assimilate the whole thing easily and relaxed by continuously thinking about old memories and experiences with Sherlock. She had baked a cake for herself and John before they had come here so they could later talk better, John could still see the flour on here sleeves. Mrs. Hudson would not leave Baker Street in the upcoming time.

And John? He was not sure if he really should take a closer look at himself. He did not dare because otherwise he probably would completely freak out in the next couple of seconds so that everybody around him would think that he was clinically insane. Well, John was a Doctor after all he would know best. For him it was…

Mycroft Holmes had finally come.

Without any words of greeting he just stood beside the Doctor at the grave. John looked at him in not a really nice way but the sadness got hold of him again after a few seconds.

The rain became stronger and stronger one could not see four metres wide. Time to go, even nobody wanted to leave. Wordless, like they had all read each other's mind, the mourners turned around, said Good-Bye to each other. Only Mycroft had turned away from that, he did not want to know anything about this "sentimental nonsense". But actually all this affected him more than he wanted to admit.

The black umbrella opened above him he wanted to leave but John ran after him and eventually stopped right in front of him.

"Where have you been all the time?"

It was more a hiss that the Doctor made but in the rush of the rain it faded away.

"Busy."

He answered in this cold tone with which his brother also used to speak. John gulped angrily for air.

"B- Busy? This was your brothers' funeral! And you?!"

He looked at him with a feeling of hostility and reproach in his eyes.

"It's your fault that he died! At least partly!"

"Yes? Is it?"

Mycroft looked patronizingly down at John while his eyes contracted to slits.

"Who told Moriarty everything about Sherlock?!"

It took him always a big mountain of conscious effort to say his name since the Consulting Detective was dead.

"It surely wasn't me! And then you just led him go!?"

"Otherwise I wouldn't have got the information I needed!"

The sound of shame now came into the sound of his voice.

"What- tell me- WHAT use had it in the end?! He didn't have to jump! You could have prevented it!"

There they were again, those damned things- tears.

Mycroft stopped in the middle of his movement. He could no longer pretend this did not affect him; the cold shell of the Ice Man began to brake. He and his little brother Sherlock always had not the most brotherly relationship like normal siblings but Sherlock had never been all one to Mycroft. Otherwise he never would have asked John eighteen months ago if he could have an eye on Sherlock because he constantly worried about him. He had given Moriarty Sherlock's whole life story but he had not done this completely without feeling guilty at all. But this feeling had not gained the upper hand that day. Until Mycroft had read the obituary of Sherlock in the newspapers a few months later.

He had not been busy before he had come. Well, he had something to do but he had finished that before the beginning of the funeral. He had fought with himself a long time whether he should go or not. But this discussion with himself had no real sense because this was about his little brother and no matter how cold Mycroft was: he cared so much about his brother Sherlock. So he had come with the hope that all other people had left already when he arrived because a conversation just like this one with John now he had wanted to avoid. But John would have come to him anyway sometime…

"I'm sorry, John. I'm so sorry."

Before John could look at Mycroft again the Ice Man had left. He watched him a long time before he also finally left the cemetery with Mrs. Hudson.


End file.
